


Glory, Never The Same As Truth

by bowyer



Category: The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Domestic Violence, Gen, Muteness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of non-chronological pieces, with one connecting thread - how would everything have played out if Anders had been born unable to speak?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unfair

Even at twenty one, Anders is small to the point of ridiculousness. Olaf muses, not for the first time, about how one so small – Ty has already overtaken him, and Axl’s almost there – is in a family where everyone else is so large. He’s been stripped of his normal cockiness as he raises the sword to point in the direction of the sky with an arm that seems a little less surer than usual.

 

And when the lightning comes down, Anders’ mouth is open in a wordless scream, and his jacket is going up in flames and Olaf wonders if the lightning can be seen from miles away and – _Anders’ jacket is on fire._

Between him and Mike, they get it off him and beat out the flames.

 

-What the fuck was that?- Anders asks, hands chopping through the air like they only do when he’s angry or scared (and how Olaf wishes, countless times, that he didn’t know what his older grandchildren sound like when they’re scared). -I liked that jacket!-

 

“I’ll get you another,” Mike says, sounding much older than his twenty six years. “It can be a birthday present.”

 

-Fuck that, I want a car.-

 

“ _Anders_ , can we concentrate on something that’s not you for _one second?_ ”

 

-We _are_ ,- Anders’ eyebrows raise to stress the word, -Concentrating on me. And how I’m a god. Which god? What can I do? Bet it’s cool.-

 

Olaf takes a deep breath and tunes into the mists in his mind. _No,_ he shakes his head, when the mists start clearing. He’s never done this before; he’s never wanted to change something so badly before, and if he’s got any powers, if being an oracle is more than just meaningless _words_ , he can change it now. _This isn’t fair_. _Not that one, anyone but that one, it’s –_

“Not fair,” he mumbles.

 

Mike and Anders exchange mutual confused glances. “What’s not?” the older asks with a frown, and he bets Anders is asking the same.

 

When Olaf opens his eyes and fixes them on Anders, he can’t help but feel awash with sympathy. Judging from the look on Anders’ face, he can tell. “Bragi,” Olaf says with a heavy heart. “God of poetry.”

 

-Poetry? Like Romeo and Juliet and shit?-

 

“That’s a play, Anders, I’m glad to see you paid attention whilst doing an _English degree_ ,” it’s an argument that Mike and Anders have had so many times, and Olaf isn’t willing to have it play out again.

 

(And things are beginning to slot into place: Anders’ interest in literature (which waned when he discovered girls) and joining it with anthropology, because Anders has _always_ known how to work people, with his golden curls and his grey-blue eyes and his bloody dimples.)

 

“Bragi can bend mortals to his will,” Olaf sees Anders’ eyes light up in interest, “With his words.”

 

It takes a second, but Olaf and Mike watch it hit Anders.

 

He doubles over as though he’s going to be sick, and the clearing is so silent they can hear him gasping. When he reels back into an upright position, his eyes are wide and dangerous.

 

-That’s not fair,- Anders says, and if he had a voice it would be just as desperate and dangerous. -Olaf, that’s not fucking _fair_.-

 

“I’m sorry,” and Olaf is, he’s _really_ fuckingsorry, because his grandson is completely right, and this _isn’t_ fair, for someone who’s never made a sound to be given the only power that solely relies on _voice_.

 

-Fuck this.- Anders’ hand cuts through the air like a knife, and he’s running back up the hill, stumbling on his own feet and not looking back despite Mike’s shouts.

 

They both hear the car door slam and the engine rev.

 

“What a fucking mess,” Mike sounds as angry as Anders. He stalks up the hill, looking weary and tired and old and proud, and Olaf is left alone in the stone circle.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again to no one.


	2. Too Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elisabet will always blame herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Trigger warnings for domestic violence]

He raises a hand to her for the first time when Mikkel is two and almost able to construct sentences in a voice surprisingly low for a baby.

 

It’s strange, but she’s never been able to remember why; only that it was something small, in the kitchen, and the pasta in a saucepan on the stove was threatening to boil over. He raises a hand to her and the _crack_ it makes as it smacks against her cheek is loud, louder than she’d ever have imagined, and it hurts.

 

Mikkel screams with a mixture of shock and hysteria. “Bad daddy!” and he throws his bowl of food – one incident two months ago when Elisabet had spent hours picking spaghetti off the ceiling and Mikkel’s ears had cemented the idea that she wasn’t feeding him pasta again until he turned 21 – at his father. “ _Bad_ daddy!”

 

She doesn’t laugh when He storms out with tomato sauce dripping down his hair, although it’s a close call.

 

The soft cries of a scared toddler jerk Elisabet out of her stupor. “Hey,” she croons, lifting Mikkel up out of his high chair. “Who’s my brave boy?”

 

“Hit bad,” he pats her cheek gently with a pudgy hand. “’iss better.”

 

“Kisses are better,” she nods, settling him on her hip. He’s getting so big now; she won’t be able to do this for much longer. “Are you all finished eating, now?”

 

Mikkel frowns and tangles his hand in her long dark hair, using it to pull her closer. “’iss better!” he repeats, and smacks his lips onto her still stinging cheek. “Better.”

 

\---

 

Elisabet hits three stairs when she falls, trying her best to protect the soft curve of her stomach. He’s already gone by the time she dares to move, the door slamming behind him.

 

She uncurls slowly, her hands already going to the swell of her baby. “It’s ok,” she murmurs, lying to the small thing growing inside her. It’s only just began to kick, slow and languid movements that differ so much from Mikkel’s frantic ones. Mikkel was born running, and laughing.

 

“I hope you’re a bit slower,” when the baby doesn’t move, she drums her fingers in hello. “I love your brother, but I couldn’t cope with two of you.”

 

The baby still doesn’t move.

 

The pit of her stomach drops.

 

“Could you say hello for me, love?” she whispers, her voice shaking. The baby doesn’t respond, and there is blood on her thighs.

 

This is bad. This is _so_ bad.

 

The paramedics barely arrive in time, and it’s too fast to go to the hospital. She births her second son on the hall floor, a cushion from the sofa propping her up against the stairs. He is blonde like her father-in-law, tiny and silent.

 

“Is he…” she trails off at the frown one of the paramedics gives her. “He’s alive, please, tell me he’s –”

 

“He’s alive,” the paramedic cuts her off, but he’s still frowning.

 

 _He’s alive, but…?_ She’s too scared to ask.

 

\---

 

Olaf brings Mikkel to the hospital after school.

 

“Did you have the baby?” Mikkel asks, his head barely reaching the top of her bed. He tries to pull himself up and see, but he’s not quite tall enough. Olaf lifts him up so he can sit on the edge of the bed. “Mummy?”

 

“The baby’s… not very well, Mikkel,” she says slowly, not meeting Olaf’s eyes. Elisabet prays fervently – to what, she’s not quite sure; she’s a bloody _goddess_ – that he’s sober enough to realise that Mikkel _cannot_ know what happened.

 

Not that Olaf knows the ins-and-outs, but not even he’s that much of an idiot; he knows why she’s here, and he knows why there’s a tiny baby that can barely _breathe_ in a box out in another room when her baby should be with her.

 

“Is it sick?” Mikkel’s frantic question brings her back to the present. “Mummy?”

 

“A little bit, but I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she lies, running a hand over his dark hair. “How was school, sweeting?”

 

Thank the gods for the butterfly minds of five year olds. Elisabet lets her son’s babble wash over her, and her body aches with a fierce longing for the little one in the next room.

 

She can’t let Him back again. She can’t.

 

Not now there are two little bodies for her to protect.

 

(On a physical level, she’s just not big enough. And not prepared, not at all.)

 

“Mummy?”

 

“Shall we go and see your new brother, hmm?” The words distract Mikkel before he can ask what she was thinking about, and he gives a victory whoop and _leaps_ off the hospital bed (Elisabet feels her heart stop temporarily, but then he clambers from off the floor, brushes his knees off and races out the room.)

 

“That one will be havoc when he grows up,” Olaf says in his faux-wise voice, a hand at Elisabet’s elbow to help her out of bed.

 

“Will be?” She arches an eyebrow and pulls her cardigan closer around her. She’s remembering how to walk again without that familiar bump.

 

Mikkel looks up from smushing his fingers against the baby’s incubator when she presses a kiss to his mess of dark brown hair. “He’s ugly,” he informs her, sounding disappointed.

 

“He’s not very well,” Elisabet correct, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile. The other side of the incubator, Olaf hums something under his breath at the baby. “You didn’t look very well when we had to pick you up from school last month, did you?”

 

“I threw up all over everyone’s paintings,” Mikkel shakes his head. “But I wasn’t _furry_!” Suddenly, his face lights up. “Is he going to be a _puppy_?”

 

The baby’s eyes snap open as though he’s heard his older brother speaking, and he opens his mouth in a silent cry. Already distracted from his previous train of thought, Mikkel coos at the sight of them, a glassy grey like storm clouds reflecting on a calm sea.

 

\---

 

He never gains his voice, and he’s never quite as big as Mikkel was at his age.

 

Elisabet wraps him in a name like a protective shield, one that he’ll grow into. One day, her early son will be a god, but right now she’ll settle for him living to be a man.


End file.
